It's a cry so high only a dog would answer.
So he answers.
She is brown-yellow barren. Like a desert on the moon.
Keening in her sleep.
He keeps one hand on her forehead. She sleeps
so little now. It is best not to wake her. So -
He runs the Dreamscape. Arms out to catch
whatever is left of her flight.
She is feverish with a Sickness Unforgiving
as the battered hive.
He consumes her every sound. Because -
There is no sound like the last sound.
A perfect, crystal breaking High C.